THREE POEMS FOR CHILDREN
1. NAUTICA
When you stepped
into the water, we said you had upset it, but it would forgive you. And the sun
cast a mesh of light over the waves and lit up their tips like birthday
candles. We set sail in boats of our own fabrication, sometimes gluing coffee
cans or stitching citrus peels together. They left suds in our wake the little
fish loved, leaping and boiling in the water like macaroni. Which in turn
interested the big fish, and still bigger fish, until we formed a jolly party,
coasting along with giants in our wake. Back then, the shore birds weren’t so
timid of humans, had no reason to be, might just look down in disdain as we
navigated through their long legs. And we sought passage between lakes like
voyageurs, parting the cat-tails and reeds with our fingers, following
every rivulet and portaging our fruit-peel canoes through the woods. They were
light, easy to carry overhead, and fragrant. Of course we were just kids then,
had always to deal with curfews and the like, and our exploring range wasn’t the
widest. Yet there were still dangers, instances of elk poking their heads out
through the undergrowth and snorting and blowing their snot at you. And you had
to watch for mosquitoes, which back then swarmed so thick that they could drain
a face of all blood in less than a minute. You might grow faint afterwards, and
then have to hurry home to swallow a whole plate of spaghetti sauce just to get
your color back.
2. INSECTA
We used to say to
the ants, Shoo, little ones, it’s not your turn to inherit the earth yet!
Gnats were everywhere also, and if you held open your mouth, liked to settle
upon your tongue like snowflakes. An adult might have to warn you, Stop
that, you’ll fill up before dinner! Of course, it was considered a high
crime for a kid to loiter around the house at all; they would send you out with
just a half-sandwich or apple and tell you not to come back till supper. So we
built our fort-houses in the woods and led second lives there. And we flew moth
kites and held beetle races and sampled strange colorful bugs on a dare. Yes
sir, I guess you could say we were always hungry . . .
3. IF I HAD
SUPERPOWERS
If I had
superpowers, I would glide up and down stairs at the mall so all the shoppers
there would scratch their heads and ask, Hey, where do you get on the
escalator?
If I had
superpowers, I would go into a shoe store, point to a random pair and say, I
think I’ll try on those, and then do crazy jumps and flips to make the
teenage boys jealous.
If I had
superpowers, I would pass someone in the street and say, Hi, and then
quickly circumnavigate the planet, pass that same person, and say hi
again, just to send out that creepy feeling of déjà-vu.
If I had
superpowers, I would visit the cheetah habitat at the zoo and challenge the
sleek cat to a race—and then, after I had won, look into the panting creature’s
eyes and remark, World’s fastest animal, huh?
If I had
superpowers and saw a bully beating on someone, I would offer, Why not hit me instead?—and then,
after he’d busted his knuckles on my steel jaw and chest, taunt, Gee, you hit
like a girl.
If I had
superpowers and passed a homeless woman on the street looking cold, I would
focus my x-ray vision upon her blanket or meal, saying, Here, let me heat
that up for you.
M.V. Montgomery is a professor at Life University. His most recent collection of poems is What We Did With Old Moons.
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